


Wrecked

by audreycritter



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Consequences, Family Drama, Gen, Teen!Bruce, Tumblr Prompt, alfred is having a hard day, angsty, he's a petty teenager, no profreading we die like mne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 08:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11847840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: Bruce Wayne at fifteen is still trying to figure a lot of life out. Alfred begins to doubt he's the right man for the job.





	Wrecked

The Gotham Academy Headmaster had stopped Bruce Wayne in the hallway and ordered him to fix his slipshod mess of a tie. The same tie, in fact, that Alfred had pointedly suggested he adjust before dropping him off at the front doors. 

With all that was wrong with the world, Bruce could hardly see why a tie mattered or why any of them even cared. But an attempt to brush off the Headmaster had gotten him stopped in the hallway with more and more students stopping to stare. 

Bruce Wayne in trouble was nothing new. Bruce Wayne in trouble _in public_ was still delicious novelty: his name still usually afforded him the privacy of a closed office door. His father’s picture hung in the hallway near the rowing trophies, his family’s money had paid for the new library.

But the Headmaster had been in a foul mood and Bruce had been in one to match, so they’d had a brief standoff over the tie that Bruce fixed and left alone only until he had rounded the corner out of sight. He took the tie off entirely, threw it over his shoulder, and stalked right past the heavy oak door to Latin class.

By the time Mr. Nelson had certainly marked him absent, Bruce Wayne was sitting in the driver’s seat of the Headmaster’s Lexus, bent over with his wires in his hands. It would have taken him longer, but even at fifteen and not yet allowed to drive, he had a fleet of cars and a sharp interest in them. The car purred to life and Bruce jerked the car into reverse, skidded into the parking lot with a squeal, and then slammed the stick into drive.

He hadn’t exactly planned anything beyond that and also severely misjudged his speed when he did choose a course. The front bumper crumpled like tissue paper, albeit much louder, when it collided with brick and Bruce’s face cracked against the steering wheel. 

When he lifted his head, blood dripping from his nose and the corner of his mouth, his forehead red and bound to blacken with bruise, it was to look directly into the slack-jawed expression of the Headmaster though his office window. The Lexus hissed and spat out a column of steam between them; the Headmaster was turning white with rage. Bruce scowled at him and then climbed out of the car. 

He left the tie on the dash.

* * *

An hour later, Bruce Wayne was sitting in the secretary’s room outside the Headmaster’s office, where he’d been sent with an ice pack after the initial reprimand. The nurse and an EMT had already looked at his head and lip, and after they’d declared him good to go, the Headmaster had delivered his verdict to a pale Alfred and sullen Bruce:

Two weeks’ suspension. 

Alfred had promised they’d repair or replace the car.

And then the Headmaster had dismissed Bruce, but asked Alfred to stay back.

Bruce tossed the ice pack aside, and in full view of the frowning secretary, pressed his ear to the wall near the heat register.

“…understand who his father is, but I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do. If this…incident…had occurred with another student or God-forbid, _injured_ another person, we would have been forced to notify the authorities.”

“I understand,” Alfred replied calmly.

“I’m not certain you do, Mr. Pennyworth. We’ve done our best to honor Thomas’ memory– you know we were friends– but if this sort of thing continues, we must think of the other students. I _will_ notify the authorities next time and any incident involving the police is usually grounds for permanent expulsion.”

“I understand,” Alfred said, much more quietly. “Thank you, for your patience.”

“Ah– wait. Before you go. I know it’s an uncomfortable topic to broach, but…given the circumstances and the pattern of troubling behavior– I really ought to have the counselor with us for this, but he’s out of town– I wonder if it’s the best thing for Bruce to remain…at the family house, and not with, perhaps, relatives better suited to his unique emotional and economic situation?”

“Thank you for your patience,” Alfred repeated, a bit more firmly. “Please send the bill for the car and the cost of your rental.”

Right before the door opened, Bruce sat up and snatched the ice pack. He held it to his face and Alfred paused beside him. He stood and Alfred followed him, all the way out to his own car, where he stood by the rear door and waited. 

It wasn’t until Alfred’s door slammed that Bruce realized his wasn’t going to be held open for him. 

And that was the first inkling he actually had that he might have _really_ fucked up. And it pissed him off. It was _just_ a car, it had been _just_ a stupid tie, and nobody other than him had even been hurt. And he didn’t care.

Bruce climbed into the back and buckled and waited, tense, for the sharp rebuke. But Alfred didn’t say a word.

Not a word the whole drive home.

Not a word the whole afternoon, or through dinner, or into the evening. 

By the time he stood outside the kitchen listening to the clatter of dishes being angrily washed, he was starting to feel a little ill. The Headmaster was an _idiot_ , Bruce decided, even daring to suggest…

He went into the kitchen and watched Alfred scrub at a skillet. His own barely touched food sat on a plate nearby. Bruce still wasn’t hungry. He hopped up to sit on the counter and after a moment, swallowed his unease and spoke. 

“It was none of his business where I live, or who with, and–”

Alfred shut the water off and interrupted.

“I’m ringing Mr. Kane in the morning,” he said. 

“What?” Bruce demanded, the blood draining from his head. “Why?”

“I think you know why,” Alfred said sharply, and then he left the kitchen without finishing the dishes. For a moment, Bruce remained on the counter, a statue carved from terror and rage. And then he flung himself to his feet and followed.

“If this is about the what the Headmaster said–” Bruce said, calling after Alfred as the older man’s retreating footsteps sounded down the hall. A door shut and Bruce cut himself off and hurried.

When he strode into the foyer, Alfred was putting his coat on. “I’m going out,” Alfred said sharply. “Stay here.”

“You’re _leaving_?” Bruce exclaimed, stepping forward and then stopping. “The Headmaster was being an ass. He’s been on my case all year and–”

“Aside from the risk to your own person, you stole and destroyed private property, Bruce,” Alfred said, turning on him with such a fiercely knit brow that Bruce faltered and stepped back. “The Headmaster wasn’t wrong. If anything, he’s been too easy on you. _I’ve_ been far too lenient. Stay inside.”

The door opened, letting in a swirl of chilled air, and Bruce followed again only for the door to close firmly in his face. 

Before the minute was up, he’d turned and gone to the window to watch. His hands were shaking and he wasn’t sure why. He felt childish in his relief at seeing Alfred go past the parked car and veer right onto the Manor grounds. He let his bruised forehead drop against the frigid pane of glass, and then he moved.

Bruce didn’t bother with a coat and almost immediately regretted it, trailing Alfred just out of sight across the long lawn. His heart skipped a beat when he realized where Alfred was walking– toward the Wayne family graves.

He risked the open cut across to a grove of trees, and crept as close as he dared. With a hot exhale on his fingers to warm them, he sank to the ground behind one of the wider trees and listened. 

Bruce couldn’t feel his hands or feet anymore by the time Alfred began talking, as Bruce had a hunch he might. He tilted his head to listen more closely, curious and trying to retain his lingering anger at being shut out.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne,” Alfred murmured. Bruce had to strain to hear him. He forgot how cold he was. “I’ve done my best and I’ve failed you. I’ve failed your son. I’ve…”

The words trailed off and in the silence, Bruce peered around the tree to see Alfred standing with a hand pressed to his brow. 

Bruce swung back and held his breath.

When he dared to look again, suspicious of the long quiet, Alfred was still there with his arms crossed. And with something dense and colder than the weather in his stomach, Bruce crept away, cringing when he stepped on a stick and it cracked with a sharp report. A quick glance told him Alfred had not turned, and Bruce snuck all the way back to the house and finished washing the abandoned dishes. 

And with soap on his hands, his fingers pricked with pain as warmth returned, for the first time that school year, he cried.

* * *

The Manor was dark when Alfred returned. It was worryingly empty of Bruce’s usual gestures when he’d gotten in trouble at school– no poorly steeped cup of tea as a peace offering, no music blaring to drown out a continued upstairs sulk.

With a pang of self-reproaching fear, he began searching the house. He started in the garage, concerned he’d find a car missing. But they were all there and accounted for, with no Bruce in sight. 

The entire first floor was much the same.

And then the second.

And the third.

He went back down, intending to ring Leslie Thompkins from his room– things had been tense between she and Bruce lately, but it was still a likely place for him to try to get to.

There was no need. He found Bruce sitting on the floor outside his door to his own set of rooms, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. The boy looked up and scrambled to his feet, his features set into hard lines that seemed out of place on his still-young face. 

“It’s not your fault,” he said resolutely, just the slightest anxious edge mixed with the presumed authority in his voice. “It’s mine. I’ll apologize to the Headmaster and he _will_ apologize to you.”

Alfred hesitated, with Bruce between him and his own door. The boy looked determined, but a purplish bruise had bloomed above his right eye; his nose still had flecks of browned blood despite cleaning; his lip was swollen and split on one side.

Next time, it could be someone else that suffered. Next time, it could be a holding cell or a hospital stay.

Bruce had proved himself more than willing to argue with and outright ignore or lie to Leslie Thompkins, but perhaps Jacob Kane would have more success with him. Alfred had understood, even if few others had, the Waynes reluctance to leave their son to Martha’s strict and severe brother. The boy they’d left behind would have been crushed into something unrecognizable, his tenderness and empathy victims of the upbringing.

But Alfred reminded himself that they had hardly anticipated _this_ , and perhaps would make different choices now. Maybe the discipline and rigor of the Kane household was something Bruce needed– a home where the balance of authority wasn’t so lopsided. And Kane loved his nephew, in his own way, Alfred was certain.

Still, it was only the damage Bruce had done to his face, and the flashes of imagination in which the inevitable next time was worse, that kept Alfred resolute.

Alfred stepped around Bruce in the hallway and put his hand on his door. He turned the knob and did not cast a glance to observe Bruce’s reaction to the rejected apology.

“We are not discussing this,” he said, not bothering to hide his own fatigue. He closed the door and waited on the other side for rapid knocking. It didn’t come. He retreated further into his room, took off his shoes, and slept restlessly in his clothes.

He didn’t know how long Bruce waited in the hall but he was asleep before he heard the sound of footsteps walking away.

* * *

It was early morning when Alfred woke for the dozenth time and finally stayed awake, full of dread. The night, and the fitful dreams he’d wrestled with, had done little to change his mind or ease his spirit.

He showered and dressed and emerged from the room half-anticipating that Bruce would still be there in the hall. But the hallway was empty and he went to the kitchen next. If anything, he could keep the morning as normal as possible until he made the phone call.

When he entered the kitchen, there was Bruce.

The boy sat at the head of the informal kitchen table– it was an extension of workspace as much as a place for eating, though they’d eaten at it or had tea there often enough over the years of miserable, grief- and anger-tinged days. They’d had happier meals there, too, when Bruce had stubbornly made it a habit to follow Alfred back from the cavernous dining room with his plate in hand.

He’d taught him how to slice tomatoes at that table, when Bruce was more hungry for company than food. He’d tried and failed, to the background of Real and rare laughter, to teach the both of them to make bread. That early attempt had left them with a brick-hard lump of dough and Bruce scorching the life out of a pan when he’d insisted on salvaging the mess as crackers.

Bruce sat now with two suitcases and a packed leather satchel. He was dressed, his hair combed over the yellow-edged bruise. His face was paler than usual and Alfred could tell he’d been crying. He wasn’t sure if there was a physical sign, exactly, or just an overall sense.

“I’m ready,” Bruce said calmly, when Alfred walked in. He didn’t even try to meet Alfred’s eyes, his face turned down toward the table. “Whenever Uncle Jacob is…anyway, I’m ready.”

There was something in his hunched shoulders that drove regret and reconsideration right through Alfred in a way the hollow, formal pretense of apology the night before had not.

So he didn’t speak, not trusting himself to be wise in the moment. He busied himself making tea at the counter.

“I’m sorry, Alfred,” Bruce said when the tea was steeping. He hadn’t gotten up and Alfred knew his own expression would betray him, so he didn’t turn. The glimpse of the self-reproachful younger boy was enough to make him hope, because even if in earlier days he had been desperate for Bruce to like and accept himself again, the bitter and vengeful turn his behavior has taken in the past year or so was worse.

And he couldn’t be swayed now, not with the empty assurance that it was alright– it most certainly _wasn’t_ , and the places that Bruce could go unchecked made him fear for any wisp of future he might otherwise have.

At one point, his hope had been for Bruce to recover as best he could and salvage some life for himself. He would take over the family business and fortune, perhaps find some satisfying career, marry and have a family, forge friendships. He had foolishly hoped that in time, the tragedy that scarred his adolescence would fade into the past as a continued but not consuming wound.

It startled and scared Alfred now to realize his hope had devolved to Bruce making it to adulthood alive and not in prison.

When had the sweet boy he’d once helped catalog wildlife on the Manor grounds grown so _hard_?

He snuck a glance at Bruce’s diminished form at the table. He looked for all the world like he was nine years old again, instead of a broadening and tall fifteen, and Alfred knew in the depths of his being that it wasn’t an act.

With slow and deliberate movements, Alfred carried two cups of tea to the table and set one before Bruce. He took the next chair and curled a finger around the delicate handle of the cup, his other hand on the side of the saucer.

And he tried, he _tried_ to remember what it had been like to be fifteen and in England, with an absent father off and devoted to another family; the congruent weights of having absolutely no idea what he wanted to do with himself and the terror of letting his mother down yet again. The fury on her stern face when she found he was flunking maths and had been for _weeks_ , and had been burning the school notices because he didn’t care much. 

It wasn’t a wrecked automobile or a bloody alley, but being fifteen had been its own kind of hell nonetheless. And he struggled and failed to remember how his mother had dealt with the lying, but he did have a distinct memory of her humming while she peeled potatoes.

“We cannot go on like this,” Alfred said, steam from the tea drifting in front of his face.

Bruce’s own hands were tight on the scalding cup. “I know,” he said quietly. “I understand.”

“I don’t know how to manage you,” Alfred said bluntly and Bruce finally, briefly, looked directly at him. The blue eyes were bloodshot, confirming Alfred’s suspicions about the crying. “And the privilege your birth afforded you should not shelter you from all consequences, not forever. And your Headmaster may have been correct, however harsh it seems, in perceiving that I am perhaps ill-suited to help you understand and navigate that responsibly.”

“But you aren’t!” Bruce exclaimed, the first flash of sharper temper he’d shown since Alfred entered the kitchen. And it pricked him when he realized.

“You understand that the consequences of your actions have a reach which you do not get to dictate,” Alfred said, more sharply than he meant. “You cannot exclude others from the suffering you engineer simply because you will it so.”

And Bruce lowered his head again and sipped the tea. “I know,” he said, even more quietly than before. “I’m sorry.”

Alfred drank his own tea, already cooling beyond what was preferable, and he regarded for a moment the phone on the wall. 

“They…they wouldn’t be proud of me, would they.” 

The words were softer than ever, punctuated by pauses and swallows and forced out anyway. Alfred turned his attention quickly back to Bruce, and found himself staring at the dark hair on top of the boy’s lowered head.

“No,” Alfred said finally, the truth cutting him nearly as much as he suspected it would cut Bruce. “No, Master Bruce. They would love you, but they would not be proud of this. Your parents were deeply compassionate people, and it was an honor to serve them. They had little patience for petty abuse of power.”

Bruce nodded and finished the tea. 

“Please,” he said. “Do you think…are you…will you stay here? Could I visit?”

And all of Alfred’s resolution broke. He was, perhaps, a terrible guardian, but in a moment he saw every instance of Bruce’s introspection and tentative emotional progress quelled by Jacob Kane’s rebuke and manner. 

He leaned forward in his chair and lifted Bruce’s chin. “This is your home. And if you’re determined to become the sort of man who would make your parents proud, I think we can both make some changes. I’m not ringing Mr. Kane.”

The relief in Bruce was delayed and then total; he crumpled, his face in his hands and though it was more affection than they usually displayed, Alfred pushed his chair back to stand and wrap his arms around the boy’s shaking shoulders.

Alfred had been determined but he hadn’t meant to _torture_ the boy. He prayed it made a lasting enough impact that he would cease to regret it as deeply as he did in that moment, with Bruce folded against his chest and crying without a sound.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce mumbled, clinging to Alfred’s arm. “I’m _really_ sorry, Al.”

“You’re forgiven,” Alfred said, patting Bruce’s back. When Alfred stood, Bruce dragged his own sleeve across his face and inhaled deeply. “I think we could both use a proper breakfast. Carry those bags upstairs and I’ll unpack them later.”

“I’ll unpack them,” Bruce said, rising from the chair. “And I’ll write a letter apologizing to the Headmaster.”

“I think that would do a great deal of good to soothe tempers before your return to school,” Alfred said, a fragile sort of gladness within him. “We’ll have to collect your work later today, so you don’t fall behind, but I think the best thing would be an quiet morning. Write your letter and spend some time in the library.”

“Could I, is there anything I could, could help you with, instead?” Bruce asked, his hands on the suitcase straps. Alfred considered for a moment, all the ways in the past few years he’d sheltered him from the burden of housework and tasks Bruce would never properly be responsible for beyond providing someone else’s living wage.

“Of course,” Alfred said. “Come back to the kitchen with your letter then, when it’s finished. I’m sure we can find plenty to do.”

Bruce nodded and left the room, lugging the bags along beside him. 

When he’d gone, his footsteps sounding heavy on the stairs under the weight of the bags, Alfred allowed himself a relieved sigh and made another cup of tea, this time to drink while still hot.


End file.
